Wounds
by DewdropLotus
Summary: The road to recovery is a long and tumultuous one. But I will drag him along—kicking and screaming—until he learns to care for the body that he sells to others for the price of dignity he doesn't have. AllenKandaAllen.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: I don't usually like to put notes before a fic, but I feel this one needs it. If you don't care about trigger warnings, just skip this from here on and start reading._

This story has a lot of sexual themes in place, however, I have taken very careful measures to remain within the TOS on this one.

_That being said, this story might make you uncomfortable-as it has made some others as well. There is no rape/non-con/dubcon or any of the like in this, however it does touch on emotional self destruction and other heavy themes involving hypersexuality as a crippling addiction. If you feel too uncomfortable to read beyond a certain point, please step away!_

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**Wounds**  
_Part One_

I watch, just outside this door, knowing it's wrong. It's wrong morally and wrong in my heart too—for a multitude of different reasons. This is not something I find attractive; I'm certainly not watching this because it arouses me. Actually, it's pulling at the tears until they're sliding down my cheeks and curling up under my chin—clinging to me like I'm still clinging to the chaste, ignorant thoughts I had before.

The door is cracked just a bit and I've only come to talk to this man, but things have since changed. Every part of me is tingling to step in and shatter the scene unfolding, but I just don't have the right to do that. This man hates me. He hates the curse on my face, my bleached 'old-man' hair that makes me stand out like a freak in a crowd, and probably my smile is what he hates most of all. This man loathes my presence in every way, even if I don't feel the same for him.

But I wonder, as I watch his black hair splaying across the mattress and spilling off the side; who does he hate more: me or himself?

I cover my mouth so I can't make noise, because it's hard to listen to the angry growls and the reverberating sound of an open palm colliding with his fair face. Worst of all, he doesn't fight back. He isn't even protesting. He takes it while I watch and I don't understand why.

It hurts my heart in strange aching ways that I can't explain and I have no right to feel this way. I'm not chaste either, but I would have never expected this. One proud person that I thought was untouchable; was giving his body to be used like a cheap whore to a complete stranger.

He makes a low moan and I slack against the wall—I just can't watch this anymore. I can't watch his self loathing, in fear of what I might actually do if I continue. I fear the desire to protect him—because it's strong—even though he needs no protection and he may hurt me if I try.

So I slide down the wall and wait. Somewhere in this, I've lost the ability to move and I know I should; because if he catches me, he's going to kill me for daring to make this a spectacle. It's very obvious that he's hiding this thing he's doing—judging by the time of night it is. I would too in his position, if I was degrading myself to this level.

Another body leaves the room and I'm not even acknowledged. The man who's used the person, that I might have accidentally started to care for, is apathetic. He has no concerns for the person he just left and he doesn't care if I've seen. He is just as apathetic as the man who leans out that door just after.

"If you wanted to watch, you sick fuck, you could have had the decency to come in and close the door instead of displaying my privacy." His voice is cold and cutting, accusing and not wrong about it.

"I didn't want to watch," I reply, almost bitterly; but mostly it's a numb feeling.

"Then what the fuck did you think you we're doing at my door? You have a problem."

"I just…" What did I want to say? I almost lose it at the tip of my tongue because I'm choked up here in thoughts. "I just wanted to remember what it was like. To hate myself so much that," I pause and try to focus on the present, right where we are, "…it could drive me to this sort of self destruction. Then maybe," I look at him and I'm sure he finds me utterly pathetic, "then maybe I can figure out how…to heal your wounds too."

The long moments of silence pass between my words and his reaction; and he looks at me with an expression that I don't think I'll ever truly grasp, but all I know is the drops rolling off his face are as real as my own.

**To Be Continued...**


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: PLEASE NOTE! I've changed the POV since the pilot chapter. I've converted it to 1st person because FFN doesn't think 2nd person can be "noninteractive" and apparently it's against TOS. You may consider rereading the first chapter! This story is complete, but it will take time to post due to editing. Thank you. _

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**Wounds**  
_Part Two_

I find myself by his door again. Leaning forward, my arms are resting over my bent knees and I've leaned forward just enough to make it appear like I'm hugging my legs close to me. Truthfully, I am doing just that; but it's not really registering in my mind that well, because I'm too focused on the things I really don't want to hear. I'm not here because I want to listen to this person being used again. My skin actually crawls every time I hear a moan slip off that man's tongue.

There's something dark and unsettling with every noise that echoes from the room—muffled by the door I've closed. I don't bring myself to invade his privacy again, but yet I know I still am to some extent. There's something about this that's making me itch. My fingers twitch and ache to reach out and pull the stranger from him and then maybe even slap him around until he realizes that what he's doing isn't going to make it better. He's not going to heal any wounds and I fear all that will happen is he will leave himself with scars that won't ever go away.

Maybe there's a part of me too delusional to see that he's already damaged and peppered with wounds from the offset of the grenade in his own hands. He's pulled the pin and I'm probably too late to shield the blast. But that hasn't made me leave yet. I'm still sitting here, waiting for his user to toss him aside like the last person.

I had no idea.

No idea at all…

…That this was such a frequent thing. The marks on his body always vanish within the hour, so of course the evidence is gone by the time he presents himself before others. His demeanor never changes. Kanda is always Kanda and the only time I've ever seen his harsh shell crack was that one time that I'd openly expressed concern, where I'm sure no one else had. If only he would actually take what I'd said to heart.

He obviously hasn't, however, because he's under some man's body being smacked into the headboard like his wellbeing doesn't matter.

To Kanda, it really doesn't.

But it matters to me. It matters enough to keep me here until the banging of the headboard dies and it sounds like the guest is finishing up with his toy—because that's all I think of Kanda when I see him go into his room with some random Finder that may not live to see the next day anyway. It's like I'm watching Kanda being wound up and used until the gears stop and no longer provide any enjoyment to the person turning the pin. It's cruel.

I wish I could make him stop doing this to himself, but I can only sit by the door and hope that maybe he'll listen to me one of these times.

It's been a few instances since I discovered that he's been doing this—three at least—and every time, it leaves guilty feelings throughout my body; guilty because I'm idly sitting by and letting it happen. But what can I really do that would be justified? I wonder about it more than I should. I have no place in his business and that makes the feeling settle even worse—until I'm feeling ill just sitting by the closed door.

Eventually the door opens, creaky at its hinges, and a pair black boots pass by me. I never look higher than that. I don't want to see the face of the person leaving temporary bruises in Kanda's skin and blood in his bed. The person just escapes my vision and I allow it; and as always, the other occupant of the room emerges—clothing barely put back on his body.

"You're here again, I see. You're not doing much to convince me that you don't have some sort of sick fetish for listening to me getting fucked."

I cringe at the way he practically slaps me in the face with it. "…I wish you wouldn't say it that way." It stings for reasons I can't quite explain. All I can think about is that one moment where his mask dropped and I saw the truth behind this. He has to know I'm staying because of that—but it doesn't slip again, and I doubt he'll let it reveal again so easily.

"What? Say it the most truthful way?" Kanda leans closer to me until I can actually see his face and it startles me a bit. There's hollowness in his face that isn't apparent during the day—but here, here it's very strong. The shadows on his face make him look like he's haunted and I want to reach out to him and yet, I know I can't. "I don't know what you're here for, beansprout, or why you insist on hovering around my personal business; but you have two choices: you can fucking leave or you can at least not sit outside of my door and make it obvious."

"What…Are you telling me to actually sit in your room while someone mops up their needs with you?" My voice is laced with alarm, because that's exactly what he's saying to me. That uncomfortable shiver makes me nearly shift my position.

"Those are your options," he repeats, the words clattering in my brain like they were designed to not make a lick of sense. "You say it like it's some kind of shock to you, but I'd wager that I'll find you in my room, in that chair in the corner, at this time tomorrow."

My eyes cast down and gloss over with frustration, evident in the way my teeth gnash enough to make my head hurt. It's giving me grief because this is a bet that I can't win and gambling was always that one thing that I was best at.

The door closes and I remain right where I am. I know he's already on the other side of the door and for some reason, I can feel the unsettled distress in him. He's not okay with this anymore than I'm okay with watching it.

But then, I wonder if he's ever been okay to begin with.

**To Be Continued...**


	3. Chapter 3

**Wounds  
**_Part Three_

From where I am, I can see just about every detail of what's taking place within the room. His bed is placed just under the window and there's enough light pouring in to make this something that's practically illuminated for me. It's not the first time I've seen this, but it leaves a bad taste in my mouth just the same. From that moment he sneeringly told me not to sit outside his door, I had chosen to commit myself to this. Why?

I still have no clue.

But I'm here; soaking in the details of a person, whom I thought was strong, being devoured by another. It's distressing because he doesn't look like he's enjoying it, despite the sounds I hear coming from him. From the noise alone, I think he sounds like he's sunken into this—that he's taken everything that satisfies him out of it. But the truth is—as I can see plain as day—that he's suffering. Maybe there's no physical pain that can affect Kanda Yuu, but the emotional writhing glitters off him just like the pale moonlight pouring through the window.

In the dead silence, the only real sounds are Kanda's unrestrained grunts and the heavier breathing of his partner of the day. Where he finds these people, I just don't know and I never want to know. It's one of those questions that I've managed to completely tune out until this point.

All I know is that they don't care about him anymore than he cares about them. They're as faceless to him as they are to me. The only difference is that I'm not the one that's being ruthlessly broken into the mattress. Kanda is face down, completely blind to his abuser this time and just short of screaming into the bloodied sheets. It's taking me most of this session to determine whether or not these screams are pleasure or despair. It's also taking everything in me to stay where I am and not tear the stranger off him.

I can hear harsh whispers and Kanda's growling and my mind travels to places that I really don't want it to. It's disgusting because I shouldn't be wondering…I shouldn't be curious. There's nothing about this that's appealing enough to make me wonder what these people feel when Kanda's giving himself to them. Do they realize what's going on in the person beneath them? Or are they just in it for the quick burst of pleasure?

Something tells me that they're not interested in Kanda's wellbeing. And then, I wonder why I'm so invested. Kanda has been nothing by crude and unfriendly to me, yet I am just short of desperately reaching out—even to the point where I have no idea what I'm doing. I'm watching him having sex with someone else; as if it's not completely insane to be playing the part of a voyeur.

To me, it's nothing strange. I've seen my share of people sharing bodies. My master wasn't a shy man and brothels weren't an uncommon place for me to stay when he decided he wanted the feel of a woman on him. I, however, never bothered. There's something impersonal and empty about this and perhaps this is why what he's doing bothers me more than I ever want to admit.

A sharp hiss breaks into the room and I almost jump. Almost, because I've heard this before. I know that sound because of the last time it happened, when his partner stopped being so gentle. There's a cold reflection in my silver eyes, hazy and miserable by second hand. He's letting out frustrations in raspy, dry cries and I realized the last time that his mask is cracked and the wet spots in the sheets under his cheek aren't from pleasure.

It hurts to watch and it hurts to hear. The selfish part of me wants to put my hands over my ears and just block it out, but I don't. I don't because I'm thinking and letting it sink in. I'm observing until I can figure out where to bandage and how to cure. Even as the world around me blurs, I keep my eyes open. I'll cry with him so that he's not alone. The very fact that he's allowed my presence in the very room he's doing this, has to be a call for help—even if it's vague and blackened out with the blunt coldness of his personality.

Really, all I want to do is wrap my arms around him and shield him from what's hurting him most: himself.

**To Be Continued...**

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_A/N: Thank you for the wait, I'm having to edit this while writing other things. The update schedule should be shifted to be constant soon. _


	4. Chapter 4

**Wounds  
**_Part Four_

I am indescribably upset at the man sitting on the bed—disheveled and staring down at my feet as if he's ashamed to look up at me. It's really not fair for me to be this upset, but I am—I am so much that it's killing me. If anything, he should be the one upset—in fact, I'm fairly certain he's really infuriated with me. It takes the span of time for that third person to leave the room for Kanda's senses to snap him into the anger I know he should have.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" He spits at me and I resist the urge to recoil. It's mainly because I know he's justified in being livid that I have just dismissed his temporary evening partner. It wasn't the plan. I hadn't actually actively decidedthat Kanda wasn't going to play with some nameless user this particular night. I just stood up and made him leave. No real reason that I can ever logically make sense of—just an impulsive action.

"I…don't…" I choke up because he's all but attacking me in his frustration.

"You don't what? You don't _what_? You don't know do you? I don't know what your problem is, but you have no right to chase off my—."

I cut him off so fast it almost makes me ill. "Your…partner? Your…lover? Or maybe he's your _friend_?" I can't help my bitter tone. I know that these men are none of these things and he knows it too. He's ignoring it because it's easier than owning up to the fact that none of this means a thing. It's probably half of what's driving me to the offensive—shooing a man out of Kanda's room before he can even start. For a split second, I almost feel for the man I chased away, because he's been strung along by Kanda. Ultimately, however, I did what my instincts are telling me that I needed to do. "These people are just users, Kanda."

"What is your goddamned point?" Dark eyes leave me swallowing down an uncomfortable lump in my throat. "You have invaded my business enough and I let you. But I draw the line when your voyeurism becomes a thorn in my side."

"Why do you insist my reason is because I enjoy watching this? Watching you? I try to understand, I do," my voice is wavering even as the feelings are strong, "but the more I see, the more I recognize the misery. This isn't making you happy…so why? Why do you throw yourself on these men every night?"

"It's my _choice_ to do with my body as I see fit."

Choice? A _choice_…My mind settles on the intensity of Kanda's heavy gaze and I let it sink in for a moment before I can devise words to counter with. No matter how I try to look at it, I don't see _choice_, I see Kanda as even more of a prisoner than before. This man in front of me is chaining himself to his bed of self-contained lies. He can't see what I can see, when he's clawing into the sheets while someone's hands leave imprints that could last for days on normal people.

"If it was a choice, then you wouldn't be bound to it like this. I don't think you have the power over it anymore."

My words must sting him if they are enough to make the man before me clamor off the bed and curl his fingers threateningly into my shirt. "That's none of your fucking business regardless. If I want to round up five guys and fuck them all at once, I will. It's not a matter of whether or not you think I have control. I _do._"

"You can't control your need to do this. If you're this irate over a man whose name you didn't even know anyway." The tone of my voice gets stronger and braver the more I listen to him. "This only proves it, Kanda. You could have called him back if you really knew you _wanted_ it. If you really thought you had control, then I wouldn't even be in here watching you. Your body is drowning your mind out and you know it."

"That's a load of shit. A big load of shit. If you hadn't decided to run him off, then nothing would have changed."

"Exactly," I stare impassively while I wait for Kanda to realize what I'm saying. "You'd still be fucking any person who passed your fancy."

The silence that follows is deafening and for a moment I'm really worried that I've overstepped my place to an unforgiveable point—however, Kanda's gaze loses the spark and he glares at me unenthusiastically. "And what do you think you can do about it, beansprout? Are you going to take _his_ place? Do you think you can _fix_ me? Not likely. You'll leave and I'll pull someone right back in. Because what do you think you can actually do? Pretend to have moral concerns? I'll just go along with your drivel until you're done being a savior. So nothing changes regardless—no matter how you act."

"Is that what it will take, Kanda? To keep you from servicing the entire Black Order? To keep you from cutting into yourself like you are?" The words I speak are accompanied with intense drums of my heart. I'm saying one thing, but mymind is completely unsure if I can actually go through with it. It's terrifying. It's making me quiver and yet at the same time, his expression and body language are making me brave. "If that's what you want…"

"Like you could. You're not that dedicated. You can't fight them off every night. Don't bullshit me. Your concern is as _fake_ as your personality."

Something in me snaps uncomfortably within that instant. I am already shoving him back and forcibly pushing him until his body bows and he falls back on to the mattress behind him. There's a shock in his eyes, but his face is screaming at me with excitement—and I just can't understand this. "If you want it that bad, then fine Kanda," my polite disposition vanishes, dropping like I've uncurled my fingers from the handle of a shield. "Then I will do my very best to _fuck_ some self worth into you."

The threatening way I look at Kanda makes him return a feral grin at me and I take no hesitation in spitting in his face—literally. "Remember, this is what you _wanted._"

Despite the flash of anger in Kanda's eyes, he still manages to hiss at me, "my _choice_, beansprout."

"You lost your right to make choices as of right now. Speak again and I will smack the next words right out of your face."

The twisting in my gut tells me how wrong this is, but if I have any hope of breaking through, I have to be this way. I have to inflict more wounds to trigger the healing process.

This very concept reminds me of just how ruined both of us already are.

**To Be Continued...**

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_A/N: So far, this story and its sequel are complete. And I'm working on the final story now. Sorry for delays. This was this month's goal for writing 50k words. And I succeeded! _


	5. Chapter 5

**Wounds  
**_Part Five_

The churning, twisting and uncomfortable feeling in my gut refuses to back down, even as my body covers his. This is not what I want and this feels so wrong that I almost back down. The only reason I don't is because that's what he's expecting. He anticipates my admittance of defeat and letting him go back to a faceless stranger. I can't do that, because I don't want to lose to him—and I want to show him exactly what I mean. For this, I need to hurt him and it's a boiling sensation that nearly takes the air out of my lungs.

My knuckles crack across his face and I can feel the way my mangled, coarse hand splits the skin of his lip. He didn't listen when I told him to shut his mouth, so now he gets to feel the repercussions. He goads me and attempts to belittle me; but will I tolerate that? No. I won't. Angry fingers pull his hair until I can almost feel the strands screaming—ripping—at the roots. It's just enough to make him let out a strangled yelp. My goal isn't to tear his hair out—because I like his hair—however, I need him to take me seriously and nothing sinks it in quite like nearly yanking his hair out to get his attention.

"I told you not to speak," I remind him after a moment has passed.

His eyes blaze at me and they make me indescribably mad. I don't want to actually be mad; but for some reason I am and even though he says nothing else, I backhand him once more—drawing a trail of blood across the sheets. He's fine; he'll heal. That's what he does. That makes it okay to dig my fingernails into his arm until he's actually squirming in my grasp.

It's fortunate for me that he's already naked; because at the point I'm at, I just don't feel like being kind enough to undress him for this. If that had been an obstacle, I'm pretty sure I would have cut them off him and that would have been messier than I plan to get. My goal isn't to destroy him. In my strange way, I'm making an attempt to save him.

It just doesn't make sense yet why this is necessary.

I lean back off the bed and I take him with me—dragging him across the mattress and forcing him to stand up. I don't like the way he's facing and so I turn him, making him face away from me. That tight feeling hits me strongly when his bare skin is pressed flush against me. It's probably fortunate that my body is acting separately from my mind, because I have no idea how I'd be able to do this if my mind was in control. The upset emotions and growing anger would have turned me off if I had been more stable at this moment. But with his body so close, I can't really avoid it.

His arm is mercilessly pulled behind his back and I shove him further toward the bed—making him careen forward until his head turns so his face doesn't get shoved into the mattress. His legs are bent at the hip and my eyes follow the curve of his body; he's positioned at a perfect angle for me and there's nothing I can do to stop my body from wanting what my mind is reeling against. It's a complicated feeling that's throwing me in chaos. All I know is that I have no choice but to unbuckle my belt and loosen the front of my pants.

Even as I stare down at him, body waiting to be used, I can't believe where I'm going with this. It's not that I'm naïve; I just never went this far under these pretenses and Kanda's letting me like he's lost every shred of dignity that I thought he had.

There's a slight chill that crawls up my spine that almost threatens to break my resolve to do this, but I force it down. This is what he wanted.

"Changing your mind, beansprout?" His voice crawls into my ears—strained and breathless—and I lose my patience with a snap. There's a moment where I honestly feel like breaking him, because he can't understand why this is a difficult thing for me; and I know it's because he doesn't care about what's happening to himself. He should. I want him to. I want him to look at me as more than something that's going to use him. I want him to realize that somewhere in all the stupid thoughts and rampant self denials, I care about him more than I really even want to.

**To Be Continued...**

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_A/N: **PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE NOTE HERE, that this chapter has been hacked in half for the contents of the second half of it. If you'd like to read the rest of this chapter [I've tried to make this story readable without it, but] you can find it on my archiveofourown profile under dewdroplotus. I have a link on my profile for you to find it. **_

_Other than that, this story, and its two sequels are pretty much complete and I will soon be going back to other things while I edit the hell out of this. This story and it's two sequels get pretty heavy, but I hope you enjoy them nonetheless. _


	6. Chapter 6

**Wounds  
**_Part Six_

Both of us sit here in silence. What just took place is slowly fading out of prominence and I'm waiting out for the moment where one of us will react first. I suspect it will be him, because I'm feeling this sick pulling in my gut and it's holding me back from being the one to step forward. It's a combination of guilt and satisfaction that make me feel like a really horrible person.

The worst part is that I have yet to stop letting my mind recall the immediate events and just how my body reacted. I have to stare at the floor from where I am-sitting on the edge of the bed. If I look at him, all I will see is that body giving me pleasure that I really didn't want to feel. Shaking my head, I cradle my face against my hand-trying to figure out how to smooth this restless feeling out.

Behind me, Kanda's taken to leaning up against the wall and his arms are curled around his drawn up legs-as if he's trying to make himself smaller. This is the first time I've seen him this withdrawn. I've seen him angry and bitter, and I've also witnessed the strange delusional high that he loses himself to when he's particularly self loathing. But this time, he's neither. There's no snap that he usually has and there's no amused condescension. It's this that has me feeling as distraught as I do.

"I'm sorry," I blurt when the silence becomes too much.

This is not what he wants to hear and he hisses lowly at me, "No, you're fucking not. Did it feel good, Beansprout?"

I hate the way my brain is making me feel two ways about this; because I can't deny the raw pleasure, but the guilt is like a noose and I'm pulling against it. I give him the only answer that I feel would hit him hardest. "Fantastic, Kanda. You're actually stimulatingly tight for someone who fancies himself as a whore."

"Fuck you!" He grits his teeth and he sounds like he wants me to drown; but at the same time, he sounds like he's in a tempest of confused and panicky emotions—a direct result of me forcing him into a release he obviously didn't want. "You got what you wanted. Like anyone else. Now get out."

"Got what I wanted?" I look up, gazing around a dark room before I turn and let my eyes fall over the man that's very dimly illuminated by scarce light. "If I'd gotten what I wanted then you wouldn't already be thinking about the next man you'll let use and discard you."

"What does it matter to you?"

Cold and dispassionate, he is, and it frustrates me again. I'd taunted him with that one question he never answered-no matter how many times I'd threatened and hurt him to do it. I'd physically abused him and forced the reality of how much he didn't want it on him. I made him confront how much he hated what he was doing and yet he still appears to be slipping back into the thought process before-just shaken and angry.

"I want you to answer me. Do you want this? Do you like this? Is this the life of human contact you want?"

The bed moves and I don't even bother to respond-even as his arms curl around my neck and pull me back forcefully. I can feel the distraught tension in Kanda's grip and there's a pride I have in making him scattered like this. "You have no right to disrupt my life, you little piece of shit. I do what I **want**. Do you think flapping your mouth while you fuck me is going to change anything. What? Are you going to fight off every man that comes to my room? Are you going to make me your concubine and fuck me in place of all these people? Are you that committed, Beansprout? You want your fucking answer but there's no good in having it if you can't act."

"You said that to me once, Kanda," I choke slightly and breathe with a heavy inhale, "and I ended up plowing you-face down on the bed. If you think I'm going to give it up this early, then you're wrong and you may as well put my name on your schedule."

"Little…piece of shit…How dare y—."

I don't care for more of his anger and name calling and his grip is really weak due to his shaky state, so I easily flip him off me; taking little to no care that I've catapulted the man right off the bed. I simply look down at him, watching him scramble to pick himself up. "I hope you enjoyed your time with me, Kanda. It'll be a frequent thing."

He just gives me the darkest, meanest and possibly most shaken look he can give me before I decide to stand and collect my bearings to leave. I leave slowly, taking my pace carefully so he can't see just how shaken I am as well.

**To Be Continued...**

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_A/N: __this story, and its two sequels are complete. Once I've gotten my art and writing commissions out of the way, I will return to other things while I edit this thing. _


	7. Chapter 7

**Wounds  
**_Part Seven_

Another night, just like the many before it, I sit in his room and watch him bring a person in. This has been an ongoing situation since I laid down my claim; and I've complied with it to the best of my abilities. The way he smiles hollowly and runs his fingers over another man's skin makes my blood pump through my arteries until I'm afraid I'm going to bust a blood vessel. He's so determined, so hell bent…even though he's well aware of what will happen next. He's waiting for me to slip, because he wants to prove me wrong. Not only does he want to prove me wrong, but he wants to nullify my claims of his misery.

Every night I whisper the same things in his ear, while I'm thrusting myself on him. And every night it finishes with his angry scream and subsequent release that I force him to have. The last thing he wants is the pleasure that I force him to feel. He doesn't want to enjoy it, because that means he's separated me from the other faceless people that he loathes. It's a complicated place he sits in. There is no way for him to admit to one thing without bringing another thing to light, so he says nothing and he just takes it.

If he admits that he hates every moment of every experience with those people, then he's lost to every tantalizingly cruel whisper I leave buzzing in his brain. If he admits that he likes it, then he's submitting to having no control over his situation. If he bypasses the face-less stranger and gives in to sleeping with just me—then I have become a special case and he's adamant that I'm no one and nothing that can stop him.

Even though he says these things, he's yet to prove that I am nothing; because almost every night I am there waiting and I cut him off before he can seduce another person into his stained bed. It's strange, I think, because the way he lets me is leading me to think that he's just going through the motions until I step in and stop the misery that follows—even though he claims I am his misery more than most.

Sure, I hurt him. I pull his hair until it burns and leave bruises on his neck when he won't stop snapping his mouth off at me. I've held him face down and ruined his body. Yet, I feel like he's biding his time between me and the person I'm prepared to throw out.

His fingers are slender and inviting, tracing lines across this new man's face and I see the dark glitter in Kanda's eyes as they flick to me. I hate that look, because it's mocking me in a way. It's mocking me because I've become a predictable thing, haven't I? He knows what I feel and my intentions; he's playing me as much as I'm slowly winding him up and trapping him.

Somewhere, I have to concede defeat first before he crumbles after me. My choice of timing is hard for me to stomach, because this charade has gone on for a while now and now I'm recoiling from the idea of another man's body violating his. Along the way, I have become possessive and protective. It was not the intention, but it has happened nonetheless and I want to lock him in the room and refuse to let him leave until he understands the damage he's doing.

He's ruining himself and he's not even aware. I want so badly to make him see. This is not self control. This is not a choice. This has become an addiction he can't break himself from-even if he loathes it. It's like he's become addicted to convincing himself he has no worth otherwise. But he is not one to be spoken to; he's not one to listen to a lecture and that's all I have at my disposal—angry words aimed at making him realize. Yet, even with the harsh actions I put on him, he still seems to take it better than with the strangers I've saved him from. I finally think I'm starting to see, but it's still too confusing.

Why would someone like him fall to this level? I've seen brothel whores with more self-esteem than this man.

Tonight, I decide as I watch him soliciting a complete stranger for this self destructive act, I will not save him.

I remain silent and I don't move from my place in the chair. One leg crosses over the other and I lean back on the window sill and watch—painting a mask of unaffected boredom even though I'm dying inside. This is everything my body screams against, but this is what I've chosen.

It's clawing at my morals, because suddenly he's realized I'm not going to stop him and the way his face contorts makes me see everything he feels that he's pretending isn't there. It's like he's collapsing and I'm not picking him up because he has to admit he's falling first.

As the man drops him back on the bed, my fist tightens; but I don't break my resolve. Even the harrowing glare of those dark eyes boring into me is not enough to shake this. I want him to remember the difference.

And see just how in control he isn't.

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_A/N: I'm sorry for lack of updating, editing is a bit of a pain on this. This particular story has 13 chapters, and there's two longer sequels. So it's quite a bit! _


	8. Chapter 8

**Wounds**  
_Part Eight_

He's furious.

I don't have to infer or pick apart his mannerisms to see this. It comes at me in the form of his angry fist and I catch it with a bit of recoil. There's no control in him this time, I notice, and he's lashing out at both me and himself. The man who just left must be leaving him with the empty desolate feeling he'd bathed in before. The strength in his punch dies and he's trembling up his arm. I can see the angry howls on his tongue and I've already prepared myself for the screaming match that will follow.

Unknowingly, I've let him down and he's crumbling from all of the realizations that come while I'm watching him scramble to piece himself together in a way that leaves him feeling less vulnerable. He's steeling himself for when he bites my head off—his viper-like tongue stinging with accusations.

"What the fuck was that?" His words are gritty in my ears; but I smooth it out with a deep breath, because I know what I'm doing now. I've already unraveled him so much that he's actually quivering at the loss of illusion.

For weeks, I've spent my nights in his room, watching him destroy himself as a person. For more weeks, I destroyed him myself…until he became used to me and used to the way I've subtly instilled my routine in him—tracing the patterns of my kind of love into his skin. The pleasure he thinks he hates is actually only loathed because he wants that. He doesn't want what he just got and it's very hard not to see that while he's looming over me with a threatening expression and eyes glassing over with forecasted rain.

"What was what, Kanda?" I play dumb and wait for him to make the first move. He's already walking on cracked glass and it's just a process of making him step through before I get around to picking him up and pulling out the shards so he can heal. I hate doing it this way; but it's proving to be most efficient, because he looks ready to skin me alive. I almost find it funny. He never had a positive feeling toward me, and here he is, showing he wants me in place of what he'd been doing for god knows how long. Truth is plain as the furious storm reflecting in his dark eyes. "You wanted it and to be honest, I was tired, so I thought I would give you a break from me tonight."

It's the worst lie I can manage and that's frightening, because I'm usually very good at lies. Lying is so much harder when it's literally hammering my heart out of my chest with how bad it's making me feel. And really, he's not stupid. He's not stupid at all and this is accentuated by the swift open palm he smacks into my face before I'm really aware he's done it.

The sharp sting only lasts long enough for me to get my mind and body to cooperate and tell me what just happened. I'm sure that was enough to leave a mark, yet the mark probably won't be on my face; but on his pride instead. I think this, because I know he's so angry that he's as livid as he is. The reason he's livid is because I'm right.

What happened in that bed moments ago is entirely his fault and he knows that he could have pushed that man away himself. He could have said no and he could have saved himself the misery of mopping up someone's needs while slowly shredding his dignity into the mattress.

What he does now is something I wasn't anticipating and it's literally ripping me apart to see him act this way. The way he turns away from me and slides down the wall just makes me want to reach out and apologize—even if I was proving my point. It's the scream, however, that makes it haunting and I don't know what to do now. I just, I feel like I should stop him; but I know he's justified. He's being destroyed by himself, by others, and by me in the most conflicting of ways.

This scream, I understand, is the same scream that erupted that first night that I forced myself on him; that same night that I forced him to feel pleasurable sensations that he really didn't want. Yet, he wants them now. That's why he's screaming now.

"You…I…fucking despise you," he breaks his horrid shrieking to grunt hateful words at me. I'm expecting them. It's his only way to express that I've splintered his stable environment of self-hate and threw him into a confusion that left him wondering what was what and why he couldn't simply go through what was normal before.

"I know." There's no need to really ask why and there's no need to defend myself. I watched him curling under someone's touch until he was chewing his lip bloody to keep him from expelling the distressed noises he makes when he's too thrown out of his comfort zone. Of course he's going to paint me as the enemy for that. "You were the one who said I couldn't keep it up, didn't you?"

It's possibly too unfair of me to say such a thing. Because Kanda is being thrown so many different things that no matter what direction he takes, he's wrong. That is possibly why he's losing his mind.

"I hope you fucking die," he sneers and nearly curls himself into the brick wall.

I stand and force myself to remain distant like I have been all along. I can't show the affection I want, because I'll never get at him like that. "I'll see you tomorrow night, Kanda," I say as I leave the cold room behind me.

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_A/N: I swear to god, I need to be reminded that this is here sometimes. Sorry guys, I do have this thing done, I just need to edit a chapter here and there. _


	9. Chapter 9

**Wounds**  
_Part Nine_

For the last few weeks, the pattern has gone back to the same thing as before. I sit in his room when it's well into the night and I wait for him to come in later. I've gotten to a point where I'm more familiar with his room than my own and I've even taken to bringing books and placing them by the window so I can read on those nights where he takes longer than I anticipate.

Tonight is one of those nights. Usually, he's stumbling through the door with a Finder who hasn't been tipped off—and these days, they're plentiful with how many of them die. It's a sad fate for them and even worse when I think about how Kanda and I are denying them a possible last shot at the pleasures of the flesh. It's kind of rude, because Kanda knows the outcome even as he strings another victim along. He brings them in, lets them touch him and get him just about to the bed before I stand up and demand they leave. If they have a fit, I simply throw them out physically.

When the door closes, I always turn on him and deliver him to the uncomfortable end that he claims he doesn't want. It's been a bit different since I broke the pattern by letting someone take over again. I haven't done that since; because I don't think I can stomach it, let alone see him try not to have a mental breakdown. This is the rhythm we've both submitted ourselves to and I wonder what I will do if that changes.

A disturbing thought crosses my mind and I realize that I've become invested to the point of fault and I might actually have created the deeper connection that I have tried to avoid with people. I didn't want people to get close to me, but I've damned myself by getting close to one. There's a difficulty I'm finding in separating myself from Kanda and I wish I could maintain the professional distance while I try to alleviate his misery.

It only makes me realize that my own happiness depends on him and how he responds to this long project of forcing worth into him. I don't know if I'm anywhere close to the turning point, but it really seems like he's teetering on the edge of it and I want to push.

Every time I'm with him—caressing him, whispering to him, and blending myself into his person—I adopt a softer touch. I've learned to subtly change the way I comply to his demands every night. When he's bowed under me, I'm running my fingers along his skin, just to feel the way my warm fingers send shivers along his flesh. I'm slowly changing it into something that he understands as good and not something he understands as necessary.

Part of me is curious as to how this even began with him. When did he start to let himself slip? When did his skewed version of human contact spiral out of control like it did when I accidentally saw more than I should—or ever wanted to see. Why did Kanda even let me be part of this in any fashion? This man could have long ago banned me from being anywhere near his living space, but he didn't. In fact, he invited me—like he wanted me to see. Was his situation an assertion of control and want, or was it a cry for help that I openly responded to? With Kanda it was hard to really tell, but from the very beginning I had my heart convinced that this wasn't just Kanda's strange fickleness.

Regardless, I wait for him to arrive like he usually does and I pass the time watching the rain fleck colors across the window. There's nothing I feel like reading and even if I did, I wouldn't want to get into it when he's supposed to arrive soon. Any moment he will enter the room, bringing the uncomfortable part of the evening—before we both end up on his bed, making the springs protest.

No longer can I deny that I actually enjoy that part. The heat of Kanda's body and the way he moves are alluring things and everything about him really draws me to him until I want this for the sake of this. It makes me curse myself, because that isn't a reasonable desire. Kanda isn't a partner to keep; he can't even make the mental connection that being passed around like currency isn't good for his mental stability.

These lines of thought are the reason I don't notice the door click open and the reason why I blink and suddenly there he is. It almost scares me into jumping, but I catch myself before he gets a chance to really dig into me for it. Within that second, I'm already steeling myself for the act we play and I'm on my feet.

Except, something is different this time. Something is wrong. The door is closed and locked, from what I can tell by looking at the handle; and Kanda is there in front of me—giving me an unsettling look. There are no sounds in the room but breathing and my eyes are searching out the missing factor.

Kanda did not bring someone with him this time.

"Kanda?" I speak hesitantly as he moves over to his bed and sits on it. He looks weary and somewhat hollow. I know it's not a physical exhaustion, but a mental one. Yet his answer is still as denying as ever.

"I'm just tired. I'm taking a break for tonight. That's _all_."

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_A/N: It took me how long to edit this. ffs I need to get my ass in gear. _


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